In Harm's Way
by LuvDJudge
Summary: Hardcastle worries about the dangers crimefighting puts Mark in, but his concern is misunderstood by the young man and McCormick leaves Gulls Way in anger. An unexpected accident leaves Mark fighting for life and Hardcastle faces his inner feelings.


Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

**In Harm's Way **

by Susan Zodin

McCormick entered the back door of the kitchen, whistling and absently rubbing at the bandage along his left side. A stray bullet had clipped his rib cage and sliced open his inner arm the previous day as he and the Judge were chasing down two "bad guys", and he had a sling around his neck to support his elbow. Actually, it was only there to irritate him, he thought—he really didn't need it, and it was clumsy getting around with it on. The stitches itched like fire—especially when he was sweating from having to change the Corvette's oil with one hand.

The Judge entered the room and started rummaging around in the refrigerator. The older man had been irate after the accident—insisting that McCormick go into the ER to get seen, although Mark had argued that he was fine. In fact, the Judge had acted ticked-off the whole drive home, sitting tight-lipped in the pickup, eyes focused on the road. Any attempts at conversation were met with grunts, and the minute they got home to Gulls Way, he told Mark to go to the gatehouse and take a nap. A nap! Mark started to protest, but the look in the Judge's eyes made him change his mind quickly--a "do it or else" type of glare---with a strange kind of moist glint in the blue. Jeez—it wasn't his fault he had gotten shot—the Judge was acting as if he purposely jumped in the bullet's path.  Oh...he realized...Hardcase was mad because he was injured and wouldn't be able to do all the "slave labor" around the estate while his arm was healing. That was it! He went over to the sink and started to unload the clean plates from the dishwasher, mumbling under his breath.

Hardcastle sat at the table, slapping mayonnaise on a piece of bread and piling slices of ham over it. He shot a glance up at the young man, who was setting glasses in the cabinet. Damn! A simple case---they had it all wrapped up. Frank Harper had a black and white blocking the back alley to the warehouse while he, Hardcastle and Mark were searching through the front storeroom for Barry Martin and Jack Conrad—two smugglers involved in a chop shop for stolen cars. The two had taken off through the back with the three on their heels, when suddenly shots whizzed overhead and Hardcastle heard a muffled gasp and turned to see blood streaming through McCormick's t-shirt. The impact had thrown Mark to the ground, and the Judge had felt his breath catch in his throat as he ran back to the young man. To his relief, Mark was still conscious—even trying to sit up. He put a hand on the kid's shoulder, hoping that McCormick was too stunned for the moment to feel it shaking. He tried to hide his fear with bluster and brusqueness—not looking in the young man's eyes; stubbornly insisting that he get seen by a doctor; driving home in a cloud of silence because he couldn't trust his voice to speak.

Nope, he couldn't do it again. No more. He couldn't put the kid in danger again—it was too frightening for the Judge to consider. He had sent one son into danger and lost him. Now...this was a warning, and he was going to heed it. No more cases. A nice quiet life of safety.

Mark let out an exasperated sigh and turned to face the older man. "Well, Hardcase...are you going to ignore me all day today as well, or will you tell me what's wrong?"

"Take a look at yourself, hotshot, and that's your answer!"

"This? This ain't nothing. Just a scratch."

"You shouldn't have had it at all. If you'd listen to me for a minute..."

Mark interrupted angrily, "Listen to you? That's what started this whole partnership, remember? You and me—the Lone Ranger and Tonto—chasing the bad guys, fighting wrongs, champions of truth, justice and the American way! So what did I do? You act as if this is my fault."

The Judge shook his head. "Nope, it's mine. I shouldn't have taken you in to begin with like I did. This whole project was a stupid idea."

Mark was stunned. "Stupid? No...it's not...it's for a good cause..."

"Yeah, for what? It's stupid to play cops and robbers at my age. And as for you...." I can't put you in danger. Dammit, I care about you.

"Which category are you putting me into, huh, Judge? Cop or robber?" Mark was getting more incensed. He strode over to the table and bent down into the Judge's face. "Am I keeping you in practice between cases—the resident criminal?" He straightened up. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe you shouldn't have taken me in to begin with. Maybe it's better if I just get out of your way." He turned and headed out the door, slamming it behind him.

The Judge jumped up and followed McCormick over to the Gatehouse, finding the younger man angrily stuffing t-shirts and jeans into a duffle bag. "Where the hell do you think you are going?" Dammit, don't take it this way. I didn't mean...

"Away!" Mark snapped back, yanking the sling off his arm. "Out of here." His inner voice was fighting a losing battle telling him to calm down. It was happening again—he had done something wrong and was getting punished. Well—this time, he would leave before he was told to. He would run his own life.

"Like hell you are!" Hardcastle snapped back, getting angry in his turn. "You can't leave here while you're in my custody!"

McCormick glared at the older man and pushed by his outstretched arm. "Just try and stop me. No...better, put one of your famous APB's out of me. Share the fun with your cop friends." He walked out of the apartment and climbed into the Coyote. "Have a great life, Judge. I mean, it has to get better without me messing it up. I know mine will!" He floored the accelerator and took off with squealing tires and a cloud of exhaust smoke.

The Judge kicked at a loose stone in the pavement, fuming. "Dammit, stupid hot-headed kid!" Mark, don't go! He wanted an APB; by God, he was going to get one. And when he found the young rascal, he'd.... He felt a wet drop on his hand and looked up at the gray clouds overhead. Better get the Corvette back into the garage before the storm came in....

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Darkness fell as evening came, but the black sky was cut in jagged tears by fierce lightning bolts as the storm poured buckets of water down on the house. Thunder shook the windows with deep rattling. In the rear of the estate, the ocean waves were lashing at the sandy beach in a violent tempest. The Judge sat in the den, reading by flashlight since the power circuit had blown. Well, trying to read—his mind kept on wandering—worrying, yes, dammit, he was worried!—about the young man he had taken in and grown fond of despite all his self-promises to the contrary. It was one of the worst storms he had experienced in the last few years, and Mark was somewhere out in it. Hopefully, inside somewhere, warm and dry, and probably dancing with joy thinking he was out of Hardcastle's power. He'd soon learn differently, the older man grimly thought. Run out on me, will he? Just wait until.... The loud ringing of the telephone on his desk startled him, the adrenaline running through his veins heightening the sense of fear, and he walked over and lifted the receiver. "Yes...oh, Officer Mitchell. APB? Yes, I did. Oh...you found him. Well, what has he got to say for himself? Running off like a crazy...he what...?" The blood drained out of his head, leaving him feeling dizzy and sick. He collapsed into his chair, grasping the phone with a shaking hand. "What? Crash...? When? Where did they take him? Oh, my God...Mark! How is he? Is he...alive? No, I'll meet you there. LA General, yes. Thanks."

The receiver slipped out of his hand. He stared at the desktop for several seconds, then focused on the phone and hung it up. Mark had been in a wreck---wet highway, truck...brake problem, hurt bad...really bad. Oh, God. Not again! Not another...death. What was he doing out there, anyhow? That stupid fight. His fault. He couldn't seem to stop getting the kid hurt—forcing him into a dangerous job facing robbers and killers, and forcing him to run away after an argument that was meant to stop the violence and risks and instead caused more pain. Why?

He took the flashlight over to the closet, grabbed a jacket and cap, and headed out to the garage.

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Mark let up on the accelerator as he passed out of the gates of Gulls' Way and turned onto the PCH. Damn right, he was going to leave. He knew when he wasn't wanted. And what was so stupid is that the shooting was just an accident. Why did the Judge have to get in such a state about it? Blaming Mark like he was a clumsy fool. Grumping about it all the way to the doctor, then ignoring him afterwards as if he didn't even count. Now he was sorry he even had taken Mark in. Easily solved. Get out of his way. Never have to see him again. Never have to listen to his lectures and his stupid rules. No more four a.m. basketballs thumping against the bedroom wall, no more John Wayne movie marathons with popcorn and beer, listening to the Judge 's enthusiastic interactions with the dialogue, no more being treated like a "kiddo", he thought. Now you're cookin', McCormick. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, and he clenched his jaw to keep the tears from coming. Damn...the best thing in his life, and it was gone. He had blown apart his only chance at a good life with his damned temper. He couldn't go back now...but where would he go?

He drove for several hours, the windshield wipers clearing a path through the heavy rain beating down on the car. He was between towns and there was no good place to pull off the road. He was getting hungry and decided to keep on going until he found a café or convenience store. He popped the headlights on as the sun—or what was left of it through the dark clouds—set into the ocean's horizon. As he turned around a steep curve, a large produce truck was coming down the slope of the road—fast, too fast. He saw its front wheels skid off to the inside and the trailer jackknifed off the edge of the sea cliff. He pulled the Coyote over to the right as much as he could but found himself faced with the solid rock face on that side and the truck on the other. He closed his eyes as a sharp jolt hit the front fender and slid along the car's left side. The pain never registered in his nerves as he felt himself floating in a bright light, which faded to solid black.

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The medical 'copter shone its floodlight down on the heliport of the LA General Hospital, illuminating the ER and Surgical crew who waited for the patient. Pulling out the gurney, the medics surrounded Mark's still body, the white sheet stained with blood. A cervical collar supported his neck and an oxygen ventilator tube was down his throat. IV's dripped blood and fluids into his veins—one in his right arm and one drilled into his right tibia with an intraosseous needle. His left arm was broken in three places and was strapped to a board, and four ribs were cracked. His left thigh was deeply bruised, adding to the blood loss by leakage into the muscle. His skin was pale and clammy—shock was causing his smaller veins and arteries to constrict in an effort to maintain his blood pressure and provide circulation to his vital organs. Glass fragments had sliced his face in several places, and his left eye was swollen shut. There was probable concussion injury to the brain. Definitely critical condition. Damn lucky to still be alive, they thought. The reinforced metal in the racecar's frame, plus the fact that the gas tank was close to empty and didn't explode had saved him from instant death, but he wouldn't be alive for long without immediate surgery. The doctors rushed him through the halls into the surgical suite and prepared for a long fight.

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The Judge sat beside the ICU bed as still and rigid as a statue, displaying no emotion on the outside, but inside overwhelmed and frantic. He didn't know what he would do if Mark were to die now. McCormick's soul was balanced on a spiderweb thread running to Heaven, as fluid flowed in and out of tubes and probe wires measured his life in neon numbers and gauges. Despite the older man's fatigue, he couldn't bear to close his eyes because of the fear he would awaken to find the boy gone. Dammit, God, you can't take him too! Oh, please, God!

A desperate sob tried to find his way out of his soul, but he couldn't cry. Inwardly, grief and fear were suffocating him—beating him down. He grasped the ice-cold hand harder. Hold on, kiddo. Stay with me here. Those three hours anxiously pacing the waiting room in the middle of the night, waiting for the surgery to be over, had given him the chance to think about his and Mark's relationship--and he recognized that he wouldn't be able to live without the boy, not any more. When he had seen the car go down the driveway, he had felt life itself flee. The years of loneliness and empty work he had suffered after Tommy and Nancy's deaths had been filled, surprisingly but thankfully, by a longhaired, stubborn, smartass, who had an insatiable appetite, yes, but also an insatiable curiosity about everything and an enthusiasm that stimulated the older man. Mark had turned out to be his life's light, his last chance to feel, to love.... He had become something akin to a... son. Perhaps they weren't blood, but they were friends. No...more. Family.

If only they had another chance... he would do anything...everything for him--give him his life if it helped him. You're too important to lose. I love you so much. Oh, God--I don't want to be alone again!

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Two days came and went. Mark lay in the bed, traction holding his arm bones in place, and a thick bandage wrapped around his chest to support his ribs. He had been able to be extubated the day before; his left lung seemed to be expanding well and allowing air to flow in and out normally. Even with IV pain medications flowing in, he occasionally was restless or grimaced in his sleep, muttering words softly. "Sorry...fault...didn't mean..." He gasped suddenly. "No! Don't! Gonna crash!"

Hardcastle leaned over the bed, brushing the curly hair out of McCormick's face. "Ssh, son," he murmured. "It's all right. You're all right." He looked down at the pale, still face of his young friend, wincing at the stitches and bruises, and feeling helpless. It's not all right. None of this was supposed to happen.

A nurse came in and replaced the IV fluid bag. She wrote down the flow volume on the chart and scanned the vital sign monitors. "He's doing well, Mr. Hardcastle. His blood pressure is normal and he's getting antibiotics to help fight infection. Please don't wear yourself out. You need to take a break to eat, and get some rest. We are here to care for him."

The Judge thanked her, but stayed where he was. She looked at his worried face, left the room and went to the unit desk to use the phone. In a few minutes, she returned with a tray of sandwiches and coffee. "Here you go, "she smiled. "If you don't eat, we'll have to convert this to a semi-private room and put you to bed as a patient beside him!"

The Judge grinned and took the tray, then sat back down beside the bed. Watching and waiting. He was pretty good at the first thing, but rotten at the second. Patience was not his strong point---but he had no choice. Mark's life was out of his hands, and he had to trust the being who had it to give it back. Give life back to Mark...and give Mark back to him.

He gently ran his hand through Mark's hair. Come on, kiddo, wake up. You've slept long enough. I need to know you're all right.

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The rising sun sent a golden beam of light across the sheets and illuminated McCormick's face. The Judge had risen to pull the window blind when he heard a small cough behind him. He rushed over to the bed and took Mark's hand. The fingers gently moved to grasp the Judge's palm, and the right eye fluttered open to meet Hardcastle's.

"Hey, Hardcase," came a faint whisper.

The Judge's grin lit up his face.

"Hey, kiddo." Thank you, God! Thank you! He swallowed down a big lump in his throat.

"Crashed the Coyote...truck slid... rain..."

"I know, son," the Judge replied. "The hospital helicopter brought you in. You're pretty banged up, but you'll going to be okay."

Mark winced as he tried to shift position in bed. "'Banged up?'...guess so. Sorry."

The Judge looked at him, surprise in his eyes. "It's not your fault, Mark. The weather...the truck's brakes were bad..."

"Yeah," replied McCormick, but I wouldn't have been out there at all if I hadn't lost my temper and stomped out. I shouldn't have gotten angry...I thought that you were upset with me for getting shot."

Hardcastle sat down in the chair next to the bed, sighing. "I wasn't mad at you, son; I was mad at me. I dreamed up this "chase the bad guys" idea like some part of an exciting adventure game--fight for justice, protect the innocent, punish the criminals...but, it's not a game. People get hurt, sometimes. And I just didn't want...."

Mark squeezed Hardcastle's hand as the jurist bowed his head. He does care. Damned ol' donkey's crying...about me. Wow. "Hey, I know, Judge. It's a serious business. But I made up my own mind to take part in it, despite your "incentives" and the "alternate outcomes" you told me about in the jail. And I know the risks as well as you do. I want to do this, and I want to do it with you. The Lone Ranger wasn't really alone, was he? Good ol' Tonto was always at his side. You don't want to split up a team like that, do you?"

The Judge looked up at the grin on McCormick's face, wiping his face quickly with his shirtsleeve. Hell, no!, he thought. "This means you are in my custody again," he gruffly said, trying to get the mood back to "normal". "Got to follow all my rules, do what I tell you to without complaining, jump when I order you to..."

McCormick smiled. "How high?"

The Judge smiled back. "I'll buy a trampoline to help you out."

END


End file.
